Hallway Hookups
by onlymystory
Summary: Jackson runs one of the best dance crews in town. He's focused on winning and doesn't have time for relationships. But when he starts looking for the same guy every time he goes to his favorite club, Jackson starts thinking he might want something more.


Jackson Whittemore's crew is winning the fucking city wide battle in six weeks. This isn't a guess or a maybe or some sort of wishful thinking on a star bullshit. He knows he has a good crew.

They had to cull some dead weight recently when his best friend Derek's girlfriend turned out to be not only the awful person they've all secretly hated for years, but was also throwing competitions to win bets. Jackson has no love lost for Kate Argent. He's hated her for years. Always did think Derek was too good for her—seriously McCall lucked out with Allison—and he's hoping Derek will get over Kate fast enough that he can convince Allison to set Derek up with her best friend Lydia.

Lydia is a petite nightmare and possibly one of Jackson's better friends. Which he will admit only under duress or the influence of alcohol. She already has too much power.

Still, he has to admit that Lydia made a major difference in their crew. She didn't like Kate from the moment she met and it wasn't until they kicked Kate out that Lydia started showing them how to incorporate ballet moves—she's classically trained—into their routines.

Anyway, the point is that he's got a killer crew. Danny deejays for most of the battles around town and puts together some awesome mixes for practice sessions. It's a large group, Derek's sister Laura's crew disbanded for college and she sent a few of them—Boyd and Erica—their way, which helped them create a few more tricks.

Boyd and Erica are best friends with Isaac. He'd laughed when Isaac said he was security at battles and didn't dance. The security thing is definitely needed. Jackson may dance with some badass ladies but there are always assholes at these things and the equivalent of good behavior bouncers are good to have.

It's just that Isaac is built like a rail. Tall, whip thin, and with these haunted eyes that make most people want to bake the kid cookies.

Jackson only had to see Isaac in action once to change his opinion. Dude is fucking dark when he's pissed off and scarily handy with a switchblade.

Not that Jackson said anything. He intends to keep his balls.

Jackson puts an intense amount of effort into practicing and choreographing their dances. If it's not perfect, it's not worth it has been his motto for years.

But lately that's been changing. Jackson dances a couple times a month at a club uptown, away from his crew or anyone who might recognize him. He gets to let loose and yeah his technique is still flawless but he doesn't have to be quite so on all the time.

The quick visits have been enough. He dances with random people, occasionally hooks up with someone and heads back to a random apartment—never offering his place—and works out enough of his restlessness to keep going for a few more weeks. Three months ago that changed when some random punk kid wouldn't leave him alone.

_"You're kinda hard aren't ya?"_

_"Excuse me?" Jackson turns to give his best death glare to whoever is giving him one of the worst attempts at a pick-up line he's ever heard._

_"Stiff? Your moves, man. They're like a fucking board."_

_The kid in front of him is definitely his age, give or take a couple months, and he's smirking like he's the hottest thing in the club. Which hey Jackson likes to judge so he'll agree that the guy's got a decent face, too bad he had to open that mouth. "What the fuck do you know?" demands Jackson._

_The guy shrugs. He's dressed like every other clubber, jeans and a hoodie, though the red color looks damn good on him. Jackson notices that he's got the wrists cut off and he possibly considers that if those hands are as talented as they are attractive (fucking long and sinuous as hell), maybe tonight could be good for a hookup. "Look man, I'm not here to start shit. You just look like you'd have some decent moves if you loosened up."_

_"And you're gonna help me do that?" Jackson rolls his eyes. "Sorry kid but I'm pretty sure you don't have any moves that I don't."_

_"The name's Stiles," he says and then somehow Stiles is dropping to the floor, sliding between Jackson's legs and coming back up behind him. Stiles presses in close, hands on Jackson's hips and fingers teasingly lower. "You might be surprised at the moves I've got," he whispers in Jackson's ear, breath warm and heavy._

_"That's a terrible line," says Jackson, though his voice shakes a little and his hips involuntarily press into Stiles' fingers._

_"You liked it."_

_"Did not." He's lying._

_"Whatever. Wanna dance?"_

_Jackson agrees, but it's only a handful of songs later before he's stumbling against Stiles down a dimly lit hallway, stopping when they spy an empty alcove that just hides them from view._

_Stiles tilts his head back as Jackson sucks a bruise into his neck. His hands reach up to tug at his own hair for some reason and the only thought in Jackson's mind becomes the need to have Stiles' hands on him instead._

_He's on his knees before he fully processes the thought._

_"Jesus," mutters Stiles._

_"It's Jackson actually."_

_Stiles laughs. "Fucker."_

_Jackson shushes in and mouths at Stiles' dick through his pants. Stiles has been half-hard since the second song they danced to, but he's solid as a rock now._

_"Jackson." Stiles makes a whimpering noise above him. "Stop teasing."_

_Part of Jackson wants to keep torturing Stiles, slowing down and seeing how wrecked he can make Stiles look before he lets him come, but he's too impatient to bother with that now._

_Stiles braces himself against the wall while Jackson tugs his jeans and boxers down before leaning in to lick a long stripe up Stiles' cock. "God, you taste good," he says, already needing to have more of Stiles in his mouth._

_Stiles' hands tug at Jackson's hair for a brief second. They're gone just as fast. "Sorry," Stiles apologizes. It would be a bit of a party foul if it wasn't exactly what Jackson wants._

_He pulls off Stiles, relishing the plea that escapes Stiles' lips as he does—he did that—and looks up at Stiles while grabbing Stiles' hands and putting them back in his hair. "Pull harder," instructs Jackson and catches a momentary gleam in Stiles' eye before he focuses back on his task._

_He can feel Stiles on the edge, and the sharper tug on his hair a few minutes later has him moving away with a final pop and rising to kiss Stiles again._

_Stiles' fingers nimbly pull Jackson's cock out as well, stroking them together in steady, if slightly uneven strokes._

_Jackson does his best to help. He comes shaking, like he's gone ten rounds in a battle, and Stiles is only a split second behind. "Wow," breathes Jackson heavily._

_"Yeah."_

_They're still for a few seconds, then the sound of people down the hall have them straightening up and putting themselves back together._

_"I should get going," says Stiles. His posture is as confident as before, though his tone seems a little unsure._

_In contrast, Jackson shuffles his feet a little and tries to sound more confident than he is. "Yeah sure man. See ya around."_

_Once he comes down from his sex high, he figures Stiles will fade away like every other random hookup._

Jackson messes up six times in practice the next day before he yells at Scott to take off his stupid red shirt. It's fucking distracting.

_Jackson's back at the club a lot. If asked, he won't admit he's always looking for Stiles, but he is._

_Stiles shows up an hour into the night, appearing behind Jackson and tugging him off the dance floor. He nips at Jackson's ear as he pulls them into some random storage room. "Miss me?"_

_"Don't flatter yourself."_

_"I can go."_

_Jackson spins around to face Stiles. "No!" It's said too hasty to keep his cool, but Stiles doesn't seem to mind, grinning like a Cheshire cat and leaning in to kiss him. "Fuck you're hot," mutters Stiles._

_If he wasn't busy trying to simultaneously suck Stiles' tongue into his mouth and get his hands down Stiles' pants, Jackson would consider repaying the compliment._

Derek keeps asking to reschedule dance practice for his paramedic course.

Jackson could have sworn the classes were during the day but he doesn't care. He doesn't have to think up as many excuses to go to the club to see Stiles.

It's getting ridiculous, he thinks at one point. He should probably end it before Stiles gets attached. But then Jackson remembers the way it felt when Stiles pushed inside him last night. The way he felt full and whole in a way that should have scared him but never did. How Stiles' eyes widened as he looked down on him, hips losing some of their rhythm as he leaned down to kiss Jackson, the way Stiles' eyelashes flutter before he comes.

Lydia would say Jackson sounds like the script to a Nicholas Sparks movie.

He should stop.

He tucks an extra condom and Stiles' favorite butterscotch candies into his pocket instead.

Two weeks from the battle—one week until the preliminary rounds—and Jackson is hard-pressed to think of ways his crew can improve.

They're good and they're ready.

Allison picked up the ballet moves easily and Lydia worked them out as individual steps so Erica could grasp them.

Stiles is clearly influencing him a little, because Jackson allowed for a little more freestyle time, much to Scott and Boyd's delight.

Okay Scott's delight, Boyd just offered a "cool man" but that's on par with Scott's gushing praise.

He doesn't even feel bad about blowing off pizza night to call Stiles and have him meet him at his apartment.

It feels like Stiles belongs there now anyways.

_They've been doing this thing for a while now, a little over two months, and Jackson is getting tired of Stiles' shitty couch, the backseat of the Porsche or random rooms at the club._

_Don't get him wrong, the sex is amazing no matter where, when, or how, but Jackson wants more._

_Fuck he needs to see what Stiles would look like all spread-eagled across his sheets, dark and sated eyes staring at Jackson, lips red as he begs._

_Jackson thinks Stiles would like his top floor apartment, would want to fuck him against the window until Jackson is utterly wrecked._

_"Come home with me," he whispers as Stiles mouths at his neck._

_Stiles pauses. "Seriously?"_

_"Please." He doesn't think there are words for how happy he is that Stiles agrees. And when they get there and Stiles stands in his living room for several long moments before saying "no, I want you to fuck me in your bed tonight. But next time, I have plans for you" while gesturing at the windows, Jackson knows he made the right choice._

The first week of battles takes place in different regions of the city. There's too many crews out there to showcase in one night, so Danny and a few other deejays worked out a bracket system a couple years ago.

Tonight two representatives from each of the final crews get the mix from Danny at his club. They have to do one routine freestyle (without knowing the music) and one that they can plan a routine too.

Jackson recognizes a few faces—dancers come and go but leaders tend to stick around—but doesn't pay too much attention until Derek elbows him. "Is that your shirt?" He motions to a guy standing about ten yards away and Jackson starts to panic.

Because it's definitely his shirt, down to the Whittemore on the back and his jersey number from high school. And he definitely knows who picked it up out of his dresser this morning with a cheeky "I'm borrowing this" after blowing him so well Jackson's pretty sure he'd never come so hard in his entire life.

Stiles turns from the guy he's with and pales when he sees Jackson.

Jackson can't blame him. He's feeling a bit freaked himself. "Shit."

Derek grins in that stupid way that means Jackson's never going to stop being teased about this. "You wanna tell me why one of the Alphas' best dancers is wearing your high school lacrosse shirt?"

"No. Shut up, Hale."

Derek laughs and when he sees Stiles and his friend—Duke if Jackson remembers the name of the Alphas' crew boss correctly—heading over, grabs onto Jackson's wrist to keep him from getting away.

Stiles shuffles awkwardly in front of him. Jackson has no idea what to do with that. Stiles is never awkward. He's Stiles. Legs that wrap around just right and a tongue that should be banned in most countries and a way of listening to him that makes Jackson feel like he's home. "Uh, hey," says Stiles.

Jackson mentally says fuck it. It'll be the first time he takes any initiative in whatever it is they've got going but cards on the table and all that shit. He grabs a handful of the hem of his shirt and pulls Stiles to him. "Hey." He kisses Stiles, taking advantage of the open-mouthed shock to lick into Stiles' mouth before pulling away. "So surprise, I guess…" He has no real idea what to do next.

"Yeah no," returns Stiles, fisting his hands in Jackson's hoodie—technically Stiles' hoodie that he left there and yeah maybe Jackson was thinking about boyfriends and sharing clothes and sappy shit like that when he put it on—and tugging him back to him. Stiles' confidence seems to return when he kisses back.

There are about seventeen seconds where Jackson completely forgets they are in a public place with an audience.

Then Derek loudly clears his throat and Jackson ruefully pulls away. "Something you want to tell us?" asks Derek. "How long have you and Stiles been a thing?"

Jackson hesitates. He doesn't even know what they are. They've never said anything.

"Your boyfriend's kinda shy," says Duke, elbowing Stiles, who looks freaked out again.

"His boyfriend is right here," snaps Jackson, weaving his fingers with Stiles' and pulling him to his side.

Stiles looks at him. "Boyfriend? Really?"

"If you want." Jackson shrugs, trying to play it cool.

He assumes the way Stiles suddenly climbs him like a tree and sticks his tongue in his mouth is a yes. Just to be sure, Jackson takes a moment to grope Stiles' ass. Boyfriends should be totally okay with doing that in public.

Stiles hops down almost as fast and spins around to Derek and Duke, both of whom are laughing, though he doesn't release Jackson's hand. "I've never met you."

Derek stops laughing. "What?"

"You knew my name," says Stiles accusingly. "But we've never met."

Jackson glares at his best friend.

Duke smirks at both of them. "Yeah we're in the same paramedic program at the college. It's not like Stiles showed up at your favorite club at random."

Jackson gapes a little at Derek who shrugs in response. "Hey it's your place. I just figured if you were getting laid, you'd stop trying to set everyone else up. You're a shitty matchmaker, Whittemore."

"Fuck you," Jackson snaps.

"Aw that's sweet, but I think Stiles would rather you didn't." Derek ducks Jackson's fist—stupid light-footed bastard—and grins at him from the other side of Duke.

Jackson can't lunge at Derek because Stiles tugs on his hand. He turns for a second. "Yeah?"

Stiles leers at him. It's dorkier and hotter than should really be allowed. "Wanna go back to your place and have committed relationship sex?"

Jackson figures he can always beat up his best friend some other time.


End file.
